


The Last Wasted Generation

by feuillyova



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Female Jehan, Historical AU, Jehan/Bahorel as background relationship, Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta as background relationship, Les Misérables AU, Multi, Original Characters - Freeform, Other, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, WWII and Cold War AU, also suicide attempts later in the fic, fic also references past/offscreen rape and related trauma, one-sided Grantaire/Enjolras (also background), rated M for war violence and psychological torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feuillyova/pseuds/feuillyova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A WWII and Cold War AU, inspired by the history of Stalinist show trials and particularly the Slánský Trial in Czechoslovakia. The Amis de l'ABC, here longterm communist activists who have earned high places in the new postwar government, suddenly find themselves in a climate of suspicion where they are being watched. This story jumps back to explore their pasts, their convoluted routes -- through the International Brigades in the Spanish Civil War and the French Resistance during WWII -- to see what brought them to this point, then follows them -- and those who are close to them -- as they seek to stop the mechanisms set in motion, to protect each other and the dream of a better world they have fought for for so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is most closely inspired by Artur London's L'Aveu (The Confession) and owes much to it. The title is borrowed from works which tell the Romanian side of this history, most directly Silviu Brucan's The Wasted Generation: Memoirs of the Romanian Journey from Capitalism to Socialism and Back. A further source of my choice of title is this quote, found here: http://feuillyova.tumblr.com/post/105500694816/a-plus-dune-demi-siecle-dhistoire-acceleree
> 
> I also want to thank everyone who encouraged me to go ahead with this project, and particularly Oilan and Anamia/Kingedmundsroyalmurder for their beta.

1949 – Prague.

 

It wasn’t quite evening on a gray and chilly day in the first week of October, the kind of day where everything felt damp, though there had been no rain. The wind had been whistling through the cracks in the old building; the windows could not entirely keep it out. Outside, one could see people hurrying along the narrow Malá Strana street, holding tight to their hats and packages. It was the kind of day that seemed to promise an early winter, perhaps a bitter one, too. Combeferre couldn’t help shuddering as he stepped out into the street, instinctively tightening his scarf against the cold.

He didn’t have far to walk, though, for his car was waiting right outside. He only had to open the door, take a seat, slide his briefcase across to the passenger side, then close the door after himself. Soon he was off, wheels tumbling over cobblestones. The streets were almost empty now; after all, it wasn’t a workday. If he had gone directly, he would have arrived at his destination in perhaps fifteen minutes. He would have liked that, too. Instead, however, he took a detour down by the river, driving slowly past several bridges before picking up speed and turning onto the wider streets of the newer part of town, towards the Ministry of Justice, his friend Enjolras’s post now for more than a year. Dusk turned into night as he drove.

He remained cautious as he approached. Instead of turning onto the street where the ministry’s front entrance was located, he took a narrower one behind it and pulled a few minutes later into a small parking lot behind the building. Getting out then, bracing himself against the wind, he walked a few steps over to an unobtrusive door in the back. It was locked, but he had the key. Once inside, as planned, he made his way up the flights of steps to his friend’s office.

A minute later, there he was – with practiced ease, he rapped quickly on the door, then pushed it open. Enjolras, his desk piled high with folders and papers, was engrossed in his work, but he would look up almost immediately. He didn’t need to see him to know that it was Combeferre who’d come in; most likely he was not aware that it was already time to be expecting him. No, Enjolras probably had not yet realized the day was almost done.

He knew Combeferre’s footfall, though, and he knew his knock. He had grown familiar with them long ago, over the many years since childhood, since they’d first met – since … Combeferre could not say since before politics, for a time before politics had perhaps never existed for them. But it was back before ministerial positions, back before the wars that had taught them both – no matter what they were doing, no matter how engrossed they were in it, always to notice someone’s arrival. It was back even before the Party and party names, back when Enjolras was just Jan and Combeferre just Slávek. When they were children, the boy who would become Enjolras already could tell without looking when it was Combeferre who entered the room, and Combeferre knew the warm smile he would greet him with. And presently Enjolras did so, and Combeferre returned it with one of his own.

“It’s already five thirty?” Enjolras quickly piled some of the folders to the side of his desk, leaving an empty space in front of the two chairs across from where he was seated. Combeferre, nodding, took a seat in one of them.

“Just past. There wasn’t any traffic.”

Enjolras smiled again. Then: “Courfeyrac’s not here yet.”

“We can wait if you’d like.”

A moment later they were engaged in conversation about news from work. Combeferre told Enjolras that they'd received implementation reports on several new measures at the Health Ministry, and for a moment the two discussed the results. Still chilled, however, and having noticed Enjolras’s half-empty teacup, long ago gone cold, Combeferre got up to make some more for both of them. As the minutes ticked by, however, both men found their glances meeting by turns over the pile of folders on Enjolras’s desk, by turns at the door.

“Courfeyrac didn’t say anything about perhaps being late, did he?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No, and he has his key to downstairs. But I wouldn’t worry – he knows the direct number if anything’s come up.”

Once more, their eyes met over the pile of documents, and Combeferre smiled wryly. “We can start if you want. We’ll catch him up when he gets here.”

Enjolras nodded again, pulling the pile towards himself. “There’s not actually very much to show you. I’ve looked at everything we have here in Justice on Milada Horáková, and I’ve asked over at Interior for their files, but I suspect there’s a lot more they haven’t sent. I asked Foreign Affairs if they had received anything from Hungary or the Soviet Union on László Rajk, but they said they thought everything that’s come in was to the Central Committee. We have all been asked, generally, to be on the lookout for spies, saboteurs, and any possible accomplices of Rajk here in Czechoslovakia.”

“I see. Has Horáková been officially charged with anything?”

“Not formally, no, but she’s being investigated for plotting to overthrow the government and the Communist Party. I’m not sure if they think she was colluding with foreign agents as well.”

“I was going to say.” Combeferre sat back in his chair.  “It sounds like they think they’ve found Rajk’s co-conspirator quickly. The charges are almost the same, and she’s been arrested only three days after the verdict in Hungary.”

“If they are traitors, they do have to be punished.”

Enjolras’s tone was firm, but doubt flickered in his eyes. Once again, Combeferre knew exactly what he meant.

“If they are, yes.”

“But you don’t think they are.”

“I’m not sure. I certainly can’t speak for Rajk, and I don’t know the Hungarian situation at all. But – for one thing, I ran some numbers based on reports I’ve seen in the press – and it looks like here at least there’s been over a thousand trials of a political nature since _Vítězný únor.”_[1]

Enjolras’s eyebrows shot up. “Over a thousand?”

“I had thought it was a couple hundred before I ran the numbers. And sometimes the articles give details on their alleged crimes, but often they don’t. Sometimes – often – names aren’t even listed.”

“There shouldn’t be that many traitors,” Enjolras said flatly. “We came to power democratically. The people have always supported the party in Czechoslovakia.” He paused for a second, then: “Do you have numbers on how this compares to before ’48?”

“I don’t, not yet. I’m looking.”

“I can look too.”

They shared another glance, trepidation in both pairs of eyes.

\---

 “There is also the question of their records,” Combeferre pointed out a few seconds later. “I’m not sure what to make of this. As we know, Horáková has always worked for democracy. She resisted the Nazi Occupation, and suffered for it – spent most of the war in prison. She never joined the Party and she resigned her seat in parliament after February ’48. She has frequently opposed the things we’ve called for.”

“But a people’s democracy is still a democracy,” Enjolras interjected. “Dissent isn’t the problem.”

Combeferre nodded thoughtfully. After a second, he continued: “Rajk’s record is just as illustrious. He fought in Spain with us, in fact he was commissar of a battalion.[2]”

“I don’t think I knew that,” Enjolras said.

“I certainly don’t think we ever met him. In any case, he fought against the Nazis too, later. He was a leader in his country’s resistance.”

He fell silent at that, meeting Enjolras’s eyes. They shared a grim look. Further words had no need to be said. _These people have records like ours._

 

A few seconds later, Combeferre spoke up again. “It’s not that betrayal can’t come from unexpected places. It’s not that people can’t be turned.”

“But this isn’t a question of talking under torture. I know, we’ve seen that.”

“Everywhere we’ve been. Spain, France, …”

“It happened here, too, during the war,” Enjolras pointed out. “But why else would a person betray? If their life was at stake, if they weakened under blows, if they gave in to cowardice – but here, now, the war is over, we are building socialism, taking final steps towards that future we have always dreamed of – why would men like Rajk, who always seemed to share that dream, and women like Horáková, who always served her own ideal, though it might have been different than ours in some of its details, what would lead them to turn their backs on the people, on the progress we’ve made now?”

Combeferre frowned. “Money, one would assume.”

“Would they risk so much for money? Could they be so easily swayed?”

“It’s not power. They had power. They were successful in their careers.”

“What could foreign agents have promised to make – these patriots! Betray their country now? We always read about how the West is planning for more war. Why would they want that? Why would they side against the people on whose behalf they worked for so long?” Enjolras raised a fist, then slammed it on his desk in frustration.

Combeferre cast a tired look downward. He replied slowly, quietly, his tone resigned. “It’s terrifying to think they might be traitors, and even more terrifying to think that perhaps they’re not.”

\---

At that moment, the door to Enjolras’s office swung open. Both men immediately spun to face whoever had come in, their hearts pounding. But it was only Courfeyrac – caught up in their conversation, the two others had almost forgotten he was coming. Immediately, they relaxed their postures. Courfeyrac, however, looked just as panicked as they. His face was white, his eyes wide.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he murmured. His voice was shaking slightly. Both Enjolras and Combeferre came over to him. For a second, he looked like he didn’t know what to do, then suddenly he threw his arms around Enjolras, who pulled him into a deep hug.  Combeferre rested a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. The man was trembling. Enjolras and Combeferre shared another glance, alarm in both of their eyes now. Combeferre frowned. They waited for Courfeyrac to speak, to explain what had frightened him so, which presently he did.

“I was followed all the way here. There was a big, black car – it didn’t have insignia. I don’t remember – I don’t think it followed me from my home. I would have noticed if it had followed me from home. I was a few blocks away from the flat when I saw it, and at first I didn’t think anything of it. Plenty of officials have large cars, and as long as we were heading out to the main road I didn’t think he was following me. But he stayed on my tail! Eventually I took detours – I tried to lose him – I think I drove over all of Prague! Finally he disappeared, or at least I think he did, and that’s when I came, but I don’t know if …”

He fell silent then, gulping in a gasp of air. Enjolras continued to hold him tightly; Combeferre turned to warm up some more water for tea. For a long moment, noone spoke. Each man tried to process what he’d heard.

They sat down again after a moment. Despite everything, Courfeyrac wanted to hear what Enjolras and Combeferre had been discussing, so they went over the facts again, and the numbers, and their suppositions. But neither Enjolras nor Combeferre could deny that Courfeyrac’s news had shocked them the same way their own realizations just had, and Courfeyrac, momentarily calmed, quickly became agitated again.

In the end, once they were done, both Enjolras and Combeferre offered to drive him home, but he thought it best to go home on his own, not to leave his car in the lot overnight, nor to have to return for it in the morning. Enjolras and Combeferre decided to leave as well, to meet again at Combeferre’s place, and they told Courfeyrac he could join them if he wished, though they understood if he preferred to stay home.

\---

Putting his key in the ignition and starting his own car a few minutes later, Combeferre was dismayed but not exactly surprised to see headlights turn on in the street outside, or the sleek black car they belonged to, waiting, clearly, to follow him home. Fighting the urge to speed up, to try to outrun the other car, he realized that he, too, would now have to attempt to lose him in detours through traffic. Gritting his teeth, his heart pounding in his chest, he tried to force himself to remain calm, to think things out step by step. He made his first turn and the car behind him turned a second later, barely visible but for its headlights in the dark street. He really was in for the long haul now. He hoped that it wouldn’t be hours until he entered his own flat, hoped that Enjolras – and maybe Courfeyrac, if he’d decided to come – wouldn’t be stuck waiting for him all that time. Unless – his breath caught in his throat – Enjolras was now being followed, too? 

Combeferre wondered whether this new development hadn’t just confirmed all of their suspicions. If so, choices wouldn’t be easy. How should they go forward? What should they do, and what should they expect as well? They would have to act – but how – and how fast?

 ***

[1] “Victorious February,” the official Czech communist term for the February 1948 coup d’état in which the party took over full control of the government.  
 

[2]  That is, in the International Brigades in the Spanish Civil War.<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Brigades> 

***

For more information on the historical figures mentioned in this chapter, see:

 

Milada Horáková

[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milada_Hor%C3%A1kov%C3%A1](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milada_Hor%87kov%87)

 

László Rajk

[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L%C3%A1szl%C3%B3_Rajk](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L%87szl%97_Rajk)

 

Czech historian Karel Kaplan, in _1952 procès politiques à Prague_ , counts the number of people mentioned in the press as facing political trials between 1948-1949 at 1259. (p. 24.)

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

1937 – Guernica

 

            It was 4:30 in the afternoon when the first bombs hit, or so they would tell him later. Grantaire had been inside when it started. Having gotten up uncharacteristically early that morning – it was market day, today; that was the reason why the young photographer was in the town in the first place. So he’d been up with the sun and had spent the morning and early afternoon wandering back and forth through the central square, Leica in hand, watching as farmers set up tables and unloaded wares, as the town awoke and people streamed through the streets. He captured images of old people haggling, of young people – vendors and clients – flirting. He remembered a close-up on a weathered face, and on the quaint regional costumes some of the peasants wore. There was one little girl who looked up at just the right moment, struggling to lift a basket that was half her size, meeting his eyes with a wide, toothy grin. A snapshot – several rolls of snapshots – of everyday life in wartime, of life carrying on as normal.

            This had been his assignment from his publisher for the last month. One correspondent had offered him the chance to come with him closer to the front and Grantaire had been considering taking him up on it, because after all, what else did a person go to war to see? But he still wasn’t sure.

            Not that he’d been thinking about this when he went back to the small room he’d rented. Rather, he’d rested for a little while, engaging in the delightful Spanish custom of the _siesta_ that he’d discovered, and then he’d gotten up again to respond to some letters and to pack up the film he’d used that morning for shipment. He had almost finished with that when the town’s church bells started ringing an alarm.

 

            Immediately, he was up on his feet. He ran outside, just in time to hear the first bomb hit. Past the door, for a second, he stood dumbfounded, his heart pounding. Planes were flying low in the sky. He saw them: fighter planes, with Nationalist black crosses on the wings. Something dropped from one of them and nearly immediately, a second, closer explosion resounded. The town was under attack. The front had come to him.

            The realization spurred him into action once again. He began running; the streets were full of people now, all running every which way. His eyes darted frantically from one to another, from the sky to the street to the ground. He heard nothing over the deafening roar of the exploding shells, as streets and buildings far too near were hit. In his panic, he did not even realize that he didn’t know where he was going.

            Someone grabbed his arm, an older man. Grantaire spun around, turning in the direction he was pulling him. The man let go of his arm and pointed to the street ahead; Grantaire was already running alongside him.

            He didn’t think the words: _To shelter!_ He knew, didn’t he, that this was what the man’s gesture had been about? But there was no time for words now, no time for coherent thought. There were cobblestone streets beneath his feet and the sound of the bombs and nothing else – nothing else.

 

            He didn’t think of the town that morning, the bustling market, or the streets’ deceptive peace. He didn’t think of the old peasants, or of the little girl with her basket, nor of his film, left in his room on the table, if either room or table were still standing. Would he make it out alive? He had no time to ask the question. Nor did he have any time to ponder what he would he leave behind, if he didn’t.

            He thought neither of Paris nor Prague, nor the Bohemian village where he was born. He thought of neither his father – who was dead and would never know, nor his mother, whose letters he’d already let go too long unanswered. He didn’t think of his wedding day, of his bride, Julie Navrátilová,of her auburn hair, adorned with flowers then, or splayed across the pillow later. He didn’t picture her clear blue eyes, her simple, tender grace.

            Nor did he think of the girl he had met in Paris, of her rich brown eyes and dark curls as tight as his own. The model in an atelier, back when Grantaire was still studying painting. Her first name was Yvonne; he never knew any more than that. She was the loveliest model they’d had in so far, and he told her so. They’d gone for a drink afterwards, and then she took him home to her garret apartment. There they’d made love with abandon, as one does, he supposed, in flats like these all throughout Paris. Still, he would not soon forget it, how they cried out, how they writhed with pleasure until, exhausted, they lay still in each other’s arms.

            Later, they’d gone up to sit on her roof together. They’d smoked cigarettes up there, and he’d told her jokes, and she’d laughed at his accent.

            In the morning, he’d gone home. Julie was waiting for him. He hadn’t told her where he’d been, though surely she’d understood. She’d shown no rancor though; but then Julie never got angry.

            He spent several more nights with her, but he knew that Julie was right not to be jealous. Long before he left for Spain, he knew that he would never see Yvonne again. At that time, the thought of not making it out, not making it back to Paris hadn’t even crossed his mind. Still, he knew even then that they would not meet again.

            Julie hadn’t been happy in Paris anyway. The city was too big for her, and she felt too far from home. Too Bohemian to live like a Paris bohemian – her French was not good; she felt isolated, and Grantaire felt bad making her stay. Eighteen months in Paris was enough, probably for both of them, so when he had decided to go to Spain, she’d chosen to wait for him back in Prague.

 

            No, but he had no time to think such thoughts now. He ran, and that was it, his feet pounding, coughing at the dust swirling thick in the air. There were others running with him; he caught sight of arms and legs as they swung into view, but paid them no more heed than that. They could’ve been running for five minutes or for an hour, for all he knew.

            A shell struck not fifteen feet ahead of him, collapsing the façade of a building and ripping the street wide open.  Cobblestones and bits of pipe went flying. A woman had been running there. Grantaire barely caught a glimpse of her skirt, of the side of her face before the explosion. There was nothing left of her in the jagged crater. Torn from the earth, obliterated – no, there was nothing but a faint pink mist among the dust in the air where she’d been, quickly dissipating into the street. Instantly, Grantaire and the others changed course.

            It wasn’t until they’d found the shelter, perhaps a minute later, perhaps ten, that Grantaire could even begin to process what he had just seen. Hurrying down long, narrow stairs into a dark, earthen-walled basement, newly conscious of the feet pattering behind his and the clang of the heavy, metal door over the last of them, Grantaire also became aware of the way in which his heart was pounding. Sinking, doubling over onto the ground a few feet from the stairs, he clamped a hand to his mouth, the other pressed against his stomach. Bile rose in this throat; he wanted to retch. An electric lantern in the far corner gave off a feeble light, but he did not need it to realize that his skin and clothes were covered in dirt and grime.

            He could not voice his thought. _I am alive_ , he told himself instead.

 _But even the shelter won’t sustain a direct hit_ , he realized. Is that what it would be like for him in the end? Blown into pieces so small that nobody would even find anything to identify? Would he disappear, as if he had never existed? His mother would never know for sure what had happened to him; neither would Julie.

            It was now that the memories flooded back. The vague images became clearer in his mind. There were so many things he hadn’t done, or he had done wrong, or he’d done when he shouldn’t have. He didn’t want this to be his legacy.

            The depth of the shelter, the thick walls, muffled all sound from outside. He could hear himself think now. He could also hear what sounded like soft murmurs from other corners of the space, other people speaking, though he had not the energy nor the concentration to listen to see if he understood what they were saying.

            Not that muffled meant silence outside. The shelling had not let up. Two bombs exploded – they must’ve been close. The walls were shaking; he was shaking. Dust was flying around again. Raw fear was suddenly stronger than regret. _I don’t want to die like this! I’m only twenty-four years old!_ His life had just started! His first photographs had just been published; he had so much left to do. _I can’t die now, not like this!_

 

            There was silence outside for a moment, and it was then that Grantaire forced himself to lift his head, to straighten his back, and to look around in the dim light. Some twenty people were there in the shelter with him. The older man from before was with them, of course, and several younger couples, one cradling a small boy, who was clinging to his mother, his arms around her neck. There were others who seemed to be there alone: an elderly peasant, a young woman without shoes, wincing as she rubbed the sole of one of her feet.  There were also two families sitting back furthest near the lantern: two sets of parents, several children, one grandmother. They must have reached the shelter before the others – maybe their home was above it.

            Some of the children were crying. The father of the little boy spoke softly to his wife. The old woman was praying her rosary. Grantaire could vaguely make out her lips moving; as he watched, she thumbed one bead along the string. Most of the others stared blankly at the ground or the ceiling. Nobody met his gaze.

            When the silence stretched on into another several moments, several minutes, in fact, perhaps a quarter hour, one of the men nearest to the steps stood up. Several others followed him, including Grantaire, while the others stayed back. But the attack was not over. They’d barely reached the surface, however – someone was at the doorway, and Grantaire was by a window of the building above, when another round of shelling began. Somewhere in the street outside or just beyond it was hit, and instantly, the front of the building caved in on them.

            There was an explosion of stone and plaster and wood, and Grantaire was thrown backwards. After that all was pain, pain as thousands of shards of glass from the window ripped into him. Something heavy crashed down on him, crushing his leg and he tried to move but couldn’t, but then there were shouts and cries and just as brutally the weight was shoved off of him and he was lifted into the air. There were brusque movements; the glass fragments tore into his skin anew, then he was laid down – and then darkness again, and ever the pain, like a thousand knives in his skin, and something sticky under and upon him which must be blood. Then, suddenly, nothing more.

 

            He came to slowly. At first, there was a warm glow settling over him, and then, blinking his eyes, he began to see the outlines of a room all washed in sunlight. There must be a large window somewhere, but he couldn’t quite turn his head to see. His vision was fuzzy, at first anyway. But he knew that he was lying on a bed of sorts – comfortable for all he knew. That’s to say: it was not uncomfortable. The pain in his face and arms had dulled; his leg hurt a little more. Still, it ached rather than surged through him, the pain, and all seemed distant. He was aware of the pain but he wasn’t sure he felt it.

            But why all the sunlight? They were above ground, and who knew when the next wave of bombing would hit! Immediately agitated, Grantaire tried to move, tried to sit – he squirmed on his mattress, and pain shot through his foot again. He heard a woman’s voice call for something, then, a second later, however, he felt a hand press down on his shoulder, gentle but firm. Over his bed, a face swam into view, but it was a young man’s, in a white coat. He saw light brown hair … wire-frame glasses ...

            “ _¿Cuántos dedos ves?_ ”[1]

            The doctor’s Spanish was clear and fluid. Grantaire was surprised to hear, however, that his accent, though faint, was the same as his own. So, when he responded it was in Czech. “Three.”

            Visibly taken aback for a moment, the man smiled broadly. “A compatriot! What’s your name?”

            “Radoslav,” Grantaire told him.

            Another look of surprise. “Me too! Slávek for short. Combeferre.”

            “Radek here – Radek Pastorek. But they call me Grantaire.”

            The doctor had moved away from the bed; perhaps he was writing down this information. He didn’t respond and probably wasn’t even puzzled; Grantaire doubted that “Combeferre” was this man’s real surname either. Still, he felt he should explain. “I am an artist.”

            “Oh?”

            “A photographer now. I’ve had pictures published in _Paris soir_.”

            “Ah.” There was a pause, then the doctor fellow – Combeferre – asked, “How are you feeling?”

            “I …” Grantaire tried to concentrate on the pain he felt but didn’t. Memory surged, however, when he tried to contrast it to the moment of. The window shattering, its frame and glass collapsing onto him rose in his mind. He began shaking; he could not answer.

            But then there was Combeferre’s hand on his shoulder again, his concerned face back in Grantaire’s view. “You’re very lucky to have made it out,” Combeferre began. “You’re lucky that a shelter was right there, and the villagers could bring you into it, and that the shelter itself wasn’t then hit.  …” He sighed. For a moment, his tone seemed distant, but then he continued, focused again, matter of fact but also reassuring. “You’re hurt badly and you lost a lot of blood. But we’ve spent a lot of time operating and we’ve been able to save your leg. Your face and hands will scar. But you’re also lucky that no internal organs were affected.”

            Grantaire nodded weakly, trying to take this in. “My leg?” he asked at length.

            “A beam crushed it,” Combeferre told him.

            “What happened?” Grantaire asked. “I mean – what … happened?”

            At this, Combeferre shook his head. “We’re still trying to piece that out. Nationalist – or probably German – planes attacked the town, but the civilian population was their target. They dropped heavy explosives and incendiary bombs for hours! But the armaments works in the town were spared somehow.”

             “Was it only Guernica?”

            “A few villages around, too.” Combeferre heaved another sigh.

            Grantaire now glanced around the room, taking in for the first time several unoccupied beds.

            “Not many survived, then.”

            “The Basque paper claimed more than 1600 dead. The _Times_ ’ correspondent’s estimate’s goes as high as half the town’s population. We treated survivors, though, and there were others who died in hospital. We haven’t seen many survivors with injuries like yours, though.”

            Grantaire understood. Most of the others who had been brought to the hospital were gone now, one way or another. That was why Combeferre had time to sit with him.

            He thought for another moment, then: “I was supposed to be photographing life continuing on like normal despite the war.” He let out a sharp bark of a laugh. “But it didn’t!”

            Combeferre said nothing.

            His lost photos, scenes from the market the morning before the attack, now came to mind. He thought of the timid couples, the old peasants’ weatherbeaten faces, wondering how many – if any of them – were still alive. When he thought of the tiny girl with her oversized basket, he grimaced, clenching his hands, too. This sent a new wave of pain through him. His heart ached just as much.

            “What the fucking hell kind of era are we living in, anyhow? Targeting civilians like that?” Grantaire demanded as soon as he was able to speak again. “I mean, what have we come to as humans? Millennia we dream of flying, right? All the way back to Icarus and we dream of mastering the open sky. And when we finally invent aeroplanes, what do we use them for? A couple of stunt tricks and then we decide to blow villages full of old folks and children to smithereens. We harness all our ingenuity and cleverness and all we think up is better ways to slaughter each other.”

            Combeferre was out of his field of vision at this point; Grantaire struggled to turn his head to see him. The other man, who’d taken a seat not far from his bed and had a folder open in his lap, now looked at him, frowning. “This isn’t a question of humanity,” he said at length. “This is a question of fascists. Science and technology have also brought us a great deal of good.”

            “But aren’t you just playing catch up? It was the same with the Great War. Killing on a scale unheard of – and sure, medicine advances as a result, but the carnage is what begets it. Someone innovates – because the violence sits ill on our consciences.”

            Combeferre frowned once more.

            “Well?”

            “It’s not that simple. In the case of the Great War, maybe, yes. But this case is different …” His voice trailed off. Perhaps he, too, was remembering things, thinking of lives he could not save.

            But Grantaire didn’t want to think about that, either. Instead, he asked Combeferre, “What are you doing here?”

            “In Spain?”

            Grantaire attempted to nod.

            “I’m a volunteer. With the Dimitrov Battalion. They sent some of the medical team up here to do some training a few weeks ago.”

            Not that Grantaire supposed he should’ve expected anything else from a Czech doctor with a fake name and such an earnest expression. Still he burst out laughing. “Ah, so you’re a communist! _Bolsheviki,_ right? _Zdrastvuitye, tovarischi. Vodka pil’.”[2]_

            Combeferre was not amused. He endeavored to maintain an even tone, however, when he responded: “We conduct our party cell meetings in Czech, you know.”

           

            Grantaire was about to respond, to retort or apologize he wasn’t sure, but then there was a voice from the hall – the nurse from before? She and Combeferre exchanged words in a Spanish too rapid for Grantaire to understand.

            After a moment, Combeferre turned back to Grantaire. Now, he was all calm and professionalism. “I have to go. Before I do, though, I should get your family address. Do you live in Czechoslovakia or in France?”

            “My wife’s in Prague. Julie Pastorková … ” Grantaire filled in the details as Combeferre wrote them down. He gave his mother’s address, too.

            “As soon as it’s safe, we’ll have you evacuated and transferred back home,” Combeferre told him. His tone was clearly meant to be soothing, but something about his words struck a chill down Grantaire’s spine.

            “My recovery will be … long, won’t it?” he asked.

            Combeferre nodded slowly, sympathetic. “It will. And it won’t be easy. But you’re alive, and …”

            “But I won’t fully recover,” Grantaire said flatly.

            “A lot of things depend on what happens in the next few months, and a lot depends on you.” Combeferre’s tone was conciliatory; he was trying to sound encouraging, but still Grantaire could read the doubt in his face. “You’ll have to make some adjustments, and you’ll bear scars, but I think if you take care of yourself and focus on your recovery you should be able to enjoy a very good quality of life.”

            Grantaire sank back onto his pillow. It wasn’t that Combeferre’s words were unexpected in any way, or that he’d learned anything new from them, not in the face of his own overwhelming realization. Nothing would ever be the same again. He barely saw Combeferre go, barely heard his words, something about a next dose of morphine. He shut his eyes, then opened them. That made no difference; either way, the things he saw were not what was before him.

            He could have died, like so many others, and he’d lived instead. He’d see Julie again, and undoubtedly he’d see his mother, too, but then what? What the hell did a ‘good quality of life’ mean? Would he even be able to walk?

            He fell asleep soon after; the promised dose of morphine helped with that. But even his sleep was fitful.

 

-END-

 

[1] “How many fingers do you see?”

[2] Grantaire is babbling in approximate Russian here, trying to say: “Bolshevik(s), Greetings, comrades! drank vodka.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with many historical tragedies, exact numbers of casualties in Guernica are still debated to this day. I tried to rely on era accounts rather than revisionist numbers from more recent historians. A summary of the debate can be found on wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bombing_of_Guernica
> 
> The report by the Times correspondent Combeferre mentions was real. You can find the account here: http://poieinkaiprattein.org/kids-guernica/picasso-s-guernica/news-report-by-george-steer-for-the-times-about-guernica-1937/
> 
> \--
> 
> A big thank you to all readers and thanks especially to everyone who helped me with language or medical info!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, covering the years leading up to the outbreak of WWII, has a lot of historical information in it. Hopefully, it's all clear, but just in case, I've dropped a couple of footnotes to where you can read more about the events referred to in it.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who has helped me with this, for reading the chapter in whole or in part, for all your moral support ... 
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys this update :)

1940 – Southern France

 

“Aim for the soft patch of grass there – and one, two, three, go!”

With evidently practiced ease, Bahorel had leapt immediately. Enjolras sucked in a quick breath, then jumped after him. His other friends and comrades must have done the same. Before he knew it, he was on the ground. He hit the tall grass nearly square on, which cushioned his fall and, he hoped, hid him and the others from view. The train continued its motion away from them, picking up speed as it continued on into the night. Just when he was beginning to think they’d been lucky and gone unnoticed, however, a volley of shots resounded near them. Instantly, the four were up and running again. But by this point the train was already far away, no bullets touched them and the soldiers did not fire again; once the train was gone from view and the air was calm again, the four slowed to a stop.

Night had fallen, but it wasn’t pitch black yet. It would be soon though – there were no city lights here, nor any village that could be seen from this distance. This, however, was not proof that there wasn’t any. Given the blackout, they might well find themselves near enough to one come morning.

With the remnant of light left in the sky Enjolras turned to look at the others. Bahorel was grinning broadly, as was Courfeyrac. Combeferre wasn’t, but joy shone in his eyes. Glancing from face to face, Enjolras grinned, too.

“Is anyone hurt?” Combeferre asked.

Courfeyrac was looking his wrist over critically, but a moment later informed the others that he was fine.

For his part, Enjolras shook his head. One of his knees still stung from the landing, he now realized, but his trouser leg hadn’t torn and he didn’t think there’d been any blood.

“I’m fine, too,” Bahorel said.

“Good, good.” Combeferre sounded almost distracted; he was already thinking of their next task.

They then planned out their next steps. It would be prudent to move a bit further away from the tracks, but they would wait out the night on the hillside where they were. They’d get moving at sunrise, though they would try to avoid main roads. It was unfortunate that they couldn’t begin right away, but as none of them knew exactly where they were … even though they’d jumped out of the train before it had taken them very far …

But they were out of the train and they were out of the Gurs camp, and once they reached the city of Pau, some forty kilometers to the east, there was a party contact who could surely get them a change of clothes and some ration tickets, and there they would await instructions from Paris about what to do next.

There was be a lot to learn, and fast. None of the four were accustomed to real underground work. This was nothing like printing pamphlets or marching in protests back in Czechoslovakia, where they always risked arrest, but that would likely only result in a night in jail, a week or two at most. Nor was this like Spain, where combat was out in the open. And their last attempts at crossing borders without attracting the attention of the authorities had failed miserably. But they’d made it now so much further than they had before, and standing there on that hillside, the cool night breeze washing over his face and ruffling his hair, Enjolras felt only joy. For the first time in a year and a half, they were going to _do something_. The struggle, so long stalled, was starting up again, and they were going to where they could take part in it. For the first time in so very long, they were free.

\--- 

The last few years had been bad ones, frustrating and disappointing. When they were still in Spain, it was easier to remain hopeful. Despite the hard fighting, despite devastating losses, and, as the war went on, despite each disheartening retreat, they were all together then, among like-minded people, among comrades. He and Combeferre had met Courfeyrac then, a young communist like themselves, and Bahorel, somewhat older. All had been activists for years already, but they hadn’t met because while Enjolras and Combeferre had grown up in Prague, Courfeyrac was from Liberec, in the north, and Bahorel was Slovak, from the countryside near Prešov. It did turn out that Bahorel and Enjolras had both attended the same youth congress back in ’34, but if they had met then neither remembered it for certain. Well, but they were quickly fast friends. And there were others, too – other Czechoslovaks and other comrades from different nations as well. All were united in a shared dream, a common goal; they fought together and suffered together under the bombardments of Madrid and Barcelona, and together they mourned common losses.

When, in September 1938, the leaders of Britain and France got together and decided to hand the Czech Sudety[1] to Adolf Hitler, it was a hard blow to everyone. Courfeyrac had put on a brave face about it, though of all of them, he was the only one whose hometown was affected.  Enjolras remembered, however, how that night, another Czech comrade, though one he did not know well, began expounding his complaints. “It’s all the fault of the German minority. They’re all Nazis. They’ve been trying to tear our country apart since 1918!”

Enjolras had felt Courfeyrac go tense next to him, but when his friend had responded he did so quietly. “Not all of us are traitors, you know.”

When all eyes trained on him, he explained: “While it’s true that when I speak to my parents I do so in German … and while it’s true that I hardly do speak to them …” (he allowed himself a smile before continuing) “We don’t agree much on political matters, but they’re loyal Czechoslovak citizens.”

“I meant no offense,” their comrade retorted, though his tone made it clear that he had taken some. He continued: “Sure, maybe some of you are decent people and decent Czechoslovaks, but …”

“It’s not very communist of you to be bringing his origins into it,” Enjolras had finally shot back, and that had ended that discussion.

Later, when the radio announced Neville Chamberlain’s words about having saved “peace for our time,” there’d been many incensed and bitter demands as to whether the British premier noticed that the war against fascism had already started so very much closer to his own shores. But at the time, despite the disheartening news, and despite their current situation, that was what made all the difference. In fighting for Spain’s freedom, they were fighting for their own as well. This was only a momentary setback. As grave as the news was, this was not the end.

It was harder to maintain that same optimism when, less than a year later, forced out of Madrid and attempting to flee across the French border, the four were caught by French border police, stripped of their weapons, and interned in a prison camp. It certainly didn’t help when, upon arrival, they were informed that the Germans had invaded what was left of Czechoslovakia, that Prague had surrendered almost without a fight, and that the Germans had further split their country in two.[2]

In the end, they spent more than a year in the Camp de Gurs, in that sandy, wet, filthy place. There was little they could do from there, though they kept as busy as they could. They worked to cut fresh planks to lay out over the muddy ground of the camp’s one thoroughfare – that took time. With some other comrades, Combeferre had helped organize a party school, and they were most often occupied with that, reading what political materials they could get their hands on and working on improving their French. They also corresponded with French comrades in Paris. The letters had started coming not long after they arrived. Each of the four received separate ones, but they all said the same thing. “We are working on getting you out. Be patient. Stay put.”

Bahorel hadn’t liked that; he’d been thinking of schemes for escape since the day they were caught. They all understood, however, that their French comrades wanted to operate by legal means, and were probably right to do so. They’d waited. But things moved apace that summer, changing quickly – and not for the better.

When the Soviets signed their non-aggression pact with the Germans[3] in August, it came as a visceral shock. Nothing about it made sense – well, nothing other than as a crude, tactical move. That was what Bahorel had pointed out:

“They’re buying time. War will come – they know it as well as anyone – but they’re not yet ready to fight, and they’ve seen that the British and the French won’t help them any.”

Enjolras had nodded. “Right, and so they’re acting in their own narrow self-interest. Any other state might, perhaps, and we might be disappointed but not surprised. But the Soviet Union? They’ve been the bulwark in the anti-fascist fight – they can’t just sign a truce with the eternal enemy!”

“But they are still a state and they have the interests of their civilians to look to.” Combeferre’s tone was grave; his own sadness and frustration was clear in his eyes. Still, he continued: “If they’re not yet ready for war, they’re not ready. And it must be that, mustn’t it? They’re a country of what, nearly two hundred million people? They _must_ look to their needs first. They simply _can’t_ put their people at undue risk!”

These were both solid arguments, of course. Still, it felt like a betrayal, a stain on the honor of the movement if principles could be cast aside like this for narrow, pragmatic concerns, and Enjolras felt that shame acutely. It was grist for the bourgeois rumor mill, too, which couldn’t seem to tell the difference between a non-aggression pact and an alliance.

At any rate, in not much more than a week after their conversation the Germans invaded Poland, and two days later, France declared war on Germany. Because of the pact, and some statement the leadership made approving it, suddenly the French communist party was seen as some kind of enemy organization, and Daladier’s government banned it. For the first time in its history, the French party was forced underground. At the Camp de Gurs, the guards confiscated the little school’s reading materials, and letters from Paris now stopped altogether.

What could they do? There was talk of a general mobilization. As foreigners, the four Czechoslovaks were exempt, but nonetheless, they planned to volunteer. The Soviets may have been biding their time, but the four would rejoin the fight. Enlisting would mean getting out of the camp, too. But though a recruitment office was set up in the camp and the four were all told they’d be receiving assignments right away, they soon ran into complications. First, there was some concern about Courfeyrac’s eligibility – because, much to his chagrin, he discovered he’d been registered as a citizen of the German Reich. As for the others, though they were told to expect to be called up any day, no such orders came. The autumn passed, then winter, and then months, and still no definitive news.

“They don’t trust any of us.” Bahorel, lying back, slammed a fist into the plank wall of their barrack. “I say we should go back to our first plan and escape.”

“We might as well,” Courfeyrac agreed. “Maybe we can re-enlist under our French names and they’ll actually have use for us then.”

“We’d need good false IDs, though,” Combeferre pointed out. “And an explanation for why we didn’t join up before.”

“Technically we’re under their orders now, aren’t we? And if we up and left they could well decide we’re deserters.” Bahorel groaned.

“What a perfectly ridiculous situation! To desert so we can properly join up and actually _do something_?” This was Courfeyrac.

Enjolras had agreed; they would have to take matters into their own hands. They’d all realized, however, that if escape was to be the plan, they would have to organize themselves well. And they were starting with nothing, no contacts for false papers, no real clandestine experience. Still, with ample preparation, they should be able to work something out.

What had resulted, however, was nearly another year of false starts, disappointment, and waiting. By the time they were ready to make their first attempt at escape, it seemed like there was no longer any need to: real combat had broken out on the northeastern border. The Germans had begun their invasion, and the four volunteers were told that they would finally ship out over the next few days. They were even given uniforms and sent to train. But the following weeks full of hope and exhilaration ended in nothing more than bewilderment and disappointment, for within a month the French, too, had succumbed to the German onslaught. Taking advantage of the situation, the four tried to run, but their preparations had evidently been for naught: they were caught and sent back to Gurs, where for several months they were held, under heavier guard, in a special barrack, _l’îlot,_ with others who had made similar attempts. There was plenty of commiseration there, but no advice, and plenty of speculation about what was going on in the rest of the country, but no news from outside.

 When they were finally allowed to go back to their normal barracks, a new letter was waiting for them there, one unlike any other letters they had received. It was addressed to Enjolras. A long, chatty, letter, written in a woman’s hand, and at first Enjolras almost thought he’d received it by mistake – (for he knew neither the sender, one Musichetta, nor her address in Paris) until he and the others read through it carefully. For there, between improbable reminiscences, concern for his and his comrades’ welfare and details of holidays that clearly nobody could have taken _that_ summer, -- reading it over, puzzlement and confusion gave way to understanding and appreciation. _Please forgive the long gap in correspondence. Not everyone has returned yet, and much has happened._ We know who you are and where you are. We are keeping you in mind. _Do you remember our friend Jos_ _é?_ He had no idea to whom she might be referring, but he got the point. _He is in Pau now_. _I shall write again soon._

Well, so, in short, the letter said the same thing all the others had said: _keep patient, keep waiting_ , and perhaps that was itself proof that its author was indeed with the Party. But the fact that they’d received it at all meant that in Paris, people were organizing themselves, and that those here in Gurs had not been forgotten. It meant that despite the French surrender, there would soon be work for them to do.

The next morning – this morning – they’d been talking, working out how to respond or whether they should at all, or whether they should just escape straightaway and head towards Pau, they were called to the gate. “José” himself had come to meet them.

They’d stood on opposite sides of the entryway for several minutes, talked briefly and of nothing consequential, since they were being observed, but the man seemed earnest and told them he’d return soon.  So, no firm plans had been discussed then, but they all had the feeling that things were finally moving apace. At that time, however, they’d had no idea how quickly.

 

That evening, just after curfew, the door to their barrack had banged open and a guard, entering, ordered them up with their things. Marched towards a waiting train, with no information as to where they were headed, they shared by glances their single thought: their choice had been made for them.

And so, less than an hour later, here they were, in the open countryside. This time they would not get caught.

 ---

The hillside was quiet, the tall grass was dry. Enjolras lay back. They should all get some sleep, he thought.

“Do we know how far away from Gurs we went on that train?” Combeferre asked.

“Not more than fifteen kilometers, I shouldn’t think,” Bahorel replied.

“That’s what I thought. And we need to be heading more or less due east. Only I don’t know which direction is east.” There was a pause, and then Combeferre added: “The stars are so clear here. I wonder if I can work out our route by them.”

There was laughter from both Bahorel and Courfeyrac.

“It’s a real method of navigation!” Combeferre protested. “I mean, there are obviously better ones now, but they circumnavigated the whole globe in the Age of Exploration by the stars. It’s worth a shot.”

“Yeah, but would you know how?” This was Courfeyrac.

“I had a book on it as a boy,” Combeferre told him.

“Well, if we wind up in Hispaniola it’s your fault,” Bahorel grumbled, though Enjolras could hear the smile in his voice.

“What, don’t you want to see the Americas?” Combeferre was laughing now, too.

“Yes, I would love to, but preferably not tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow! By what miracle would you _walk_ across the Atlantic in a _day_?” Courfeyrac wanted to know.

Enjolras smiled gently at his friends’ banter and closed his eyes.

 

They woke as the sun’s first rays crept over the hillside, well rested and alert. Enjolras turned to Combeferre, curious. “Were you able to work anything out by the stars?”

Combeferre shook his head, but he was smiling. “No, but I remembered that the sun does happen to rise in the east!”

The four all laughed at that, and then they set out on their way.

 

 ---

 

It was this moment that Enjolras thought back on, when six months later he was onboard another train, leaving Paris. This time, he would not jump – he had a ticket, a first ticket in hand, at least (though it was not in his name) and he intended to reach his destination. But this time he was alone. His friends were remaining in the French capital for the time being, but he had been asked to come to the Soviet Union.

Other comrades had travelled there, and others had returned, clandestinely, to their countries of origin. Enjolras hoped that this would be his case eventually. The Soviet authorities wanted his report on how things had been in Spain, and how they were now in France. For his part, he hoped that though the Non-aggression Pact was still in effect, the Soviets might be coordinating information networks, if not outright resistance in the Czech lands as well as in other occupied countries, and if so he would volunteer his services.

Enjolras had asked whether the three others could come with him, but was told that for now they had to wait. He’d been given instructions regarding the ticket he was to buy, and the local party had provided the funds. They’d also given him a fake Swiss passport, and what they told him were real – albeit stolen – transit passes. A contact would meet him in Zurich and would explain the rest to him.

Combeferre had come with him to the station. As soon as the four had crossed the Demarcation Line and made it up north,[4] they’d each begun to find their place in the Party’s underground network. Combeferre had an organizational role now, helping keep track of supplies, which kept him busy, but this morning he’d postponed all of his standing appointments.

They couldn’t say much; they exchanged glances instead, but furtively and not for long. German soldiers patrolled on the platforms, though they fortunately paid the pair no attention. And then, too soon, Combeferre had had to go: they both knew he couldn’t stay and wait until Enjolras’s train left, but knowing that didn’t make it any easier.

And so, once the whistle had sounded and the platform began to pull back outside the window, and once Enjolras had checked over his papers once more, he rested back in his seat and thought of the tall grass and cool breeze on that hillside between Gurs and Pau. He thought of their laughter at Combeferre’s attempt to navigate by the stars, even as he heard Combeferre’s parting words to him just now echoing in his ears …

“Keep yourself warm, you hear?”

 

 

 

[1] The Sudetenland, Czechoslovakia’s western and northern border areas, which in the interwar period had a large German-ethnic minority population, a fact on which Hitler based his demand for annexation. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sudetenland>

[2] <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/German_occupation_of_Czechoslovakia>

[3] <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Molotov%E2%80%93Ribbentrop_Pact>

[4] The boundary between the Occupied Zone and the Free Zone (Vichy France) which separated Northern France from most of the South. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Demarcation_line_(France>)


	4. Chapter 4

1942 - Paris

 

It was sometime before six when Feuilly finished his shift on the morning of July 16th, 1942. Washing his hands, he grabbed his cap from a shelf by the door and walked out into the predawn light. While the air was humid and heavy, the day had not yet begun to heat up. A nearly-cool breeze was blowing, and so despite his fatigue, the young man felt almost invigorated. He could get used to factory work, to night shifts, he thought. Especially if it were just for the summer, a stop-gap measure, a little bit of extra money for his family. He was used to hard work. In previous summers he used to do cleaning, stocking and inventory in his father’s store – summers and often weekends, too, but since they’d lost the store, and thus his father’s livelihood, he and his family had had to make do.

It wouldn’t take him long to get home – less than half an hour. His parents would just be getting up; his sister Nadzia would still be fast asleep. He’d wash properly, his mother would take his work shirt and scour it in the way only she knew how so that all the machine grease would disappear. Instead of stains, there would only be discolored patches, whiter than before. He’d sleep for a while, then the rest of the day would be his, until the evening he supposed. He’d read; he’d spend some time preparing for his fall classes. There were a couple histories he’d been reading too, stories that he and his sister – who would probably wake up not long before he did, now that he thought of it – had been reading together and dramatically reenacting, each playing different roles. Nadzia had more flair for it, but he enjoyed himself, too. Even in these hard times, when – to be honest – getting lost in a book on his own was getting more and more difficult, with his sister’s help he could once again turn his parents’ small living room into exotic sites the world over, even if only for an afternoon.

And since they’d had to give up their radios last year, it was a welcome form of entertainment on those hot summer days when neither Feuilly nor his sister felt like going outside.

That was another advantage of night shifts, Feuilly thought. At the hour he got off, very few people were out and about in the streets, and those who were either hurried to their destination or were lost in thoughts of their own. There was hardly anyone who really paid attention to him, looked him over and fixed their eyes on the yellow star so meticulously sewn onto his work shirt, either to sneer then or to look away in pity. Still, self-consciously, even now he walked with one arm pressed to his chest. The patch of heavy fabric – still so new, the shame so raw – felt like it was burning into his skin.  At least soon he would be home, and then he’d be able to forget that, too, for a couple of hours.

As he rounded the corner that took him away from the main street and into narrow immigrant alleys, towards his home, suddenly shouts and cries rent the air, shattering his calm. There were women screaming and men barking orders, and Feuilly didn’t know what was happening, but he sped up and broke into a run. His feet pounded as he passed another intersection and rounded another turn. French shouts drowned out Yiddish; it seemed like it was all coming from behind him now. He didn’t have time to think, to ask, to even begin to understand. It was only when he reached his building to find it nearly vacant, doors opened onto the square and windows all dark above that he stopped short and stared.

“What are you doing here? You have to go!” It was his building’s concierge. A middle-aged woman in a housedress, she’d stepped out from the front door and had come towards Feuilly, but not all the way, not close enough to touch him. Her tone was sharp but she kept her voice soft. Feuilly shifted his gaze to her but didn’t ease his stare. He had no words. His mind was now just barely starting to form questions.

“They took them away! The police were just here – it’s a huge round-up! You need to get far away from here! I don’t know where they’ll stop!”

For another moment her own urgent stare met Feuilly’s blank shock and then with a sudden movement, she reached up and, knocking his hand away, attempted to tear the star from his shirt. It didn’t come off completely – his mother had sewn it neatly, with care – and it was an awkward enough gesture that the concierge’s grip wasn’t good, but somehow the gesture galvanized Feuilly into action. He ripped off the rest of the star, in pieces, even as he turned to go.

He didn’t stop to say goodbye to the woman, though it had been many years he’d known her, if never well. Nor did he thank her – but why would he have? For her warning, perhaps. But then, perhaps they both knew how much she could have done and didn’t.

So he left. As soon as he’d finished with the patch and stuffed it into a pocket, he broke into a run once again. His aunt, his father’s sister, lived a few blocks away, in the opposite direction. As if waking slowly, if not to the world then to this strange new reality, Feuilly’s feet thought before his mind did, and he was almost at her door before he consciously realized that this was where he was going. But her flat – probably her whole building – stood empty, too.

He had to think. He had to think and work this out. Where could he go? He needed to find somebody he knew. He had no other family in Paris. He didn’t know how many of his school friends were in the city for the summer, and since he’d been working so hard he hadn’t seen any for some time, but he was already mentally mapping the distance between their homes. His parents had their friends and acquaintances, too, and he thought he also knew where some of his sister’s friends lived. Some lived nearby, but these were other immigrants, mostly other Jews from Eastern Europe. Would it be better to try to find one of them? They would give him shelter, no question, but they themselves were at risk.

Well, he should warn them at least.

So off he went. After a moment, he glanced down at his shirt. To his dismay, tearing the star off hadn’t done much good. With his mother’s frequent, strenuous washings, the patch of fabric under where the star had been had faded differently than the rest of his shirt. The star’s outlines were still clearly visible on his chest. Going out without the star was plainly illegal, and now anyone who saw him would be able to tell he’d intended to do just that. Self-consciously, he slid his arm up to cover it again. He must look like he was hiding something, though … ! So he put a hand to his collar, pretending to fiddle with it. Did that look any less obvious? Any less ridiculous?

Maybe he could try running like those figures in cartoons with arms stuck awkwardly out at his sides for all the good it would do.

Even as he was thinking, mentally sorting the chaff from the wheat as it were, he kept on moving. He knew the neighborhood well – there were alleyways which had served as shortcuts to school on days he was running late, and plenty of quiet corners on which he’d shared moments with friends, eating ice cream and taking shelter from the heat of summers past. As if automatically he chose these routes, comforted by their familiarity, not allowing himself to think about how unfamiliar and how suddenly dangerous his old neighborhood now was. But when one friend’s building was empty, and another, and when his parents’ and sister’s friends also could not be found, he could no longer ignore the extent of the situation.

Where could he go now? What could he do? He was tired – the sun was beating down over his head now and his shirt was sticky. His muscles and feet were aching again. So far, he’d been lucky enough not to run into anyone. He wanted so very much to lie down and sleep a little while.

And where had they taken his family?

Should he try to find them? But what good could he do for them if he did? How he wished he had something – a gun, a grenade – with which he could demand their release, like a hero from the movies. But he had no such things. And if he did, it might just make things worse.

Part of him wanted to go find them anyway. He couldn’t save them, but he could go with them wherever they were being taken. Probably nothing good would come of it. Still, he could share their fate that way, whatever that may be.

But he didn’t know how to find them. Giving himself up would not necessarily mean they’d be reunited. And they themselves would want him to be safe.

Still, where _could_ he go? He’d have to venture further away from the apartment. He couldn’t go back to work, though. There’d be so many people there at this hour, so many strangers. It would be too easy for one of them to turn him in. So what could he do?

 

He wandered. He wandered and wandered, ever fighting the urge to sit down and cry, to curl up on the street just anywhere and get some sleep. He tried to keep to quieter streets; he turned around if he saw anyone approaching. He focused on his surroundings, willing himself not to think of anything else. After a while, he stopped noticing even the ache in his feet, or in his heart. He simply kept moving, hardly even noticing the passage of time, too, even as the sun, long ago high in the sky, began to dip down towards the horizon.

Finally – not long after dusk, though he didn’t realize it at first, he found himself on a street not far from a building with an open, second-story window. A young woman, perhaps about his own age, was sitting by that window and gazing out, though she didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. In one hand, she held a cigarette.

The sight barely registered in Feuilly’s mind, and he was about to move on, but suddenly the girl, glancing down, fixed her eyes on him, and for a second, he was as if frozen to the spot. Perhaps it was too late to run. But as he – very much despite himself – met her gaze, he couldn’t help feeling that he remembered her from somewhere.

Her face was familiar, but the short, dark hair set in neat waves framing it was not. Nor was the brightly-colored dressing gown she was wearing over what looked like checkered pajamas. A sandy braid came to mind – he’d seen her at the university, a quiet girl with a bright smile, dressed ordinarily enough, except sometimes she’d had a _Jeunesses Communistes_ pin on her blouse …

Oh. _Oh…_

“Stéphane!” the girl suddenly cried.

This was not Feuilly’s name, but suddenly he understood how things were to go. It hadn’t been more than fifteen seconds, but he knew the script. He did not, however, know what name she would be using. He was equally sure that her real name, Johanna, now that he’d remembered it, would not do.

But she was quicker than him. “Stéphane, oh Stéphane, I’m so glad you came!” She gushed, stubbing out her cigarette in an ashtray on the windowsill even as she spoke. “I know I told you not to come see me but I’m so glad you thought the better of it. It’s been so long and I’m so sorry we parted so angry. Wait, I’m coming down!”

The window slammed shut. Feuilly now attempted a casual stroll to the front door, still keeping his arm against his chest, his hand at his collar. Maybe it made him look nervous – but that wasn’t the worst thing at the moment.

The girl must have ran – not a minute later, she was at the door, face flushed, a bit winded. She didn’t stop, however, but launched herself immediately into Feuilly’s arms. A bit awkwardly, he embraced her. She pressed herself to his chest, and in doing so, hid the place where his yellow star had once been.

She looked up; Feuilly followed her gaze. An older woman was now looking out from a window a few floors above them, her expression stern, but the girl only grinned, then, ducking her head back towards Feuilly, looked him straight in the eyes before leaning in for what was clearly meant to be a dramatic kiss. For his part, Feuilly had neither the time nor the experience to reciprocate. He attempted to look gratified, however, comfortable at least, ducking his face towards the girl’s. A second later, though, she broke away. She looked up again quickly again; the shutters slammed shut. At that, she turned back to the boy with a knowing smile and, with one arm still around Feuilly’s shoulders, pulled him into the building and quickly up the stairs.

The young man hesitated at the doorway to her small room, but she gave him a gentle push, closing the door quickly behind them as they entered before, deftly turning, she gestured to a chair at the end of the bed. Obedient, he went to sit; for her part, she went to close the shutters and curtains before taking a seat herself.

 

For a moment there was silence. Feuilly blinked, then slowly looked around, taking in his surroundings. The room was small and sparsely furnished. No pictures hung on the wall, though there were a few books on a shelf. Other than that, though, there was really just the bed, his chair, and a small table by the window. The girl watched him as he took these things in. Finally, he took a deep breath, then turned his gaze back to her. She bit her lip.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I hope that wasn’t too awkward for you.”

He shook his head quickly. “No! I … thank you. That was … creative.”

“She always thought the worst of me.” The girl had lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’d rather shock her into silence and let her think she’s confirmed her suspicions than have her wonder and talk and accidentally come out with something she shouldn’t know.” She smiled almost conspiratorially when she’d finished, but then quickly added: “You’re sure you’re not … upset, or I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable?”

Feuilly grinned, though. “If you think it would help matters we can jump on the bed for a bit in a while.”

Caught aback by his good humor, perhaps, the girl began to laugh. She quickly stifled it, covering her mouth, but her eyes remained bright and it seemed that all doubt or concern – at least about that matter – was gone.

Only a second later, however, the young man found himself blinking again. Sitting in a chair for a minute, beginning to relax, it had brought his fatigue back to him in full force, only augmented by the day’s wandering – and panic. But he didn’t know if he could rest now, or, despite their moment of mirth, what the girl had planned next. He’d looked down at his lap briefly – now he raised his eyes again to meet hers. He had a thousand questions but didn’t know how to ask any of them. He almost wished that she could read minds.

 

She seemed to be trying to at least. The girl, like him, had gone suddenly serious, her own gaze now searching and filled with deep feeling.

“I saw buses go by today, full of people who’d been rounded up. They had old suitcases and rolled-up quilts with them. I have no idea where they were being taken,” she finally said. “What an awful day. Paris hid its face for shame! A pity nobody did anything else.”

Now Feuilly frowned; he looked away once more. There was a pause, and then:

“Why did you register?”

At this he jerked his head up, but the look she was giving him was one of compassion. It hadn’t been an accusation.

“They said we had to. Everyone did. It wasn’t my choice.” He stumbled to find his words. “My parents went. People only expected a stamp in their passport, not a yellow star or …”

“But that’s how they knew where you lived.”

Feuilly shrugged helplessly. “They would’ve known anyway. All they had to do was to head for the part of town where everyone’s got Yiddish or Polish accents.”

At this, the girl breathed out sharply. “Oh god,” she murmured. “I didn’t think about that.”

“I mean, with perfect hindsight, going underground back in ’40 would’ve saved us this mess, but…”

“You wouldn’t have known how,” the girl realized. “I mean, I did. But a whole community, parents and children, nobody with any clandestine experience …” She paused, glancing around for a minute, then – lowering her voice even further – continued. “My parents and I left Paris in June 1940, like everyone did, with the debacle.[1] Got out – what – two, three days ahead of the German troops? We went to the south, and they stayed there, but I came back up in September to go back to school. I didn’t register. But I can pass as French.

Feuilly frowned thoughtfully. “I didn’t know you weren’t.”

Another furtive look around. “I was born in Hamburg. I came with my parents to France in ’34, when I was twelve.”

Feuilly’s head was spinning. He’d just had his life saved by a German girl. A German Jewish girl, and that made all the difference, but still.

“You’ll have to go underground, too,” she said after a minute.

“I didn’t see you in school last year.” He voiced this realization aloud. Then: “I probably can’t go back this fall, either.”

She shook her head sadly. “No, but the war won’t last forever.”

They shared a bittersweet glance.  Nobody was going to pretend that this was anything other than small consolation.

Suddenly, however, Feuilly sat forward again. “You’re doing something, though. You’re doing more than this.”

The girl bit her lip.

“You’re not just sheltering me or distributing pamphlets. I … I wished I had a gun or a grenade today. Wouldn’t have known what to do with it if I had one, I suppose. But I … I don’t want this to have to happen to anyone else!”

And now the girl smiled grimly. “None of us do. Yes, there are people. I’ll get you in touch.”

Feuilly nodded, solemn. “Thank you.”

“We’ll be glad to have you.”

“I don’t know anything about underground work.”

“You’ll learn. It takes practice.”

“You called me Stéphane. Should I …?”

“If you want.” She’d understood what he meant. “Up to you. Might be better to pick something further from your real name. You’ll have to change pretty often, anyhow.”

“I’ll think about it, then. And what should I call you?”

Now, she smiled more truly. “The current identity card says ‘Jeanne.’ That’s all right. But I’ve found something else that I like better for the movement. _Mon nom de guerre_ , if you will.”

“Oh?”

“It’s Jehan.”

“Jehan?”

“I love the way it sounds. It’s perfectly original nowadays. It’s a version of Jean in fact, but it’s from the Middle Ages. I read it in a book somewhere. I like it.”

“Jehan’s a boy’s name, though,” Feuilly pointed out.

The girl – Jehan – grinned once more. “I am what I am.”

Feuilly couldn’t help but gape. Not so much at whatever statement she wanted to be making about gender – a statement that, frankly, had flown right over his head – but …

“I’ve read the Bible.” Jehan informed him. “I don’t see why I can’t say it too. We’re all who we are.”

“They say we’re all made in God’s image,” Feuilly agreed. “If there is a god.”

“And if there’s not, then he’s made in ours,” Jehan finished.

The young man smiled gently. That was fair enough.

 

His focus was failing him once more, however, so instead of responding or pondering this further, he settled back in his chair again, catching a hand on one of the arm rests. He now even felt a bit faint. He wondered if Jehan would let him sleep in her flat. Would it be indiscrete to ask? Knowing Jehan – what little he knew of her already at least – she probably wasn’t bothered in the least by things indiscrete. What was her plan, though?

But her gaze had tracked his gestures.

“You look exhausted.”

“I’ve been up probably for 24 hours at this point,” he admitted. “I’ve been working night shifts at this garage and I was on my way home when everyone was taken.”

“It’s how you escaped,” the girl breathed. Then, “No wonder. Have you eaten anything?”

He shook his head.

“Do you want to? Before you sleep?”

 Feuilly shrugged. Then his stomach rumbled, which seemed like an answer in itself. Jehan smiled gently.

 “Wait there.”

He didn’t have the strength in him to protest, or to offer to help. Blearily, he watched instead as the girl rose and, turning, opened some paper parcels and placed a roll on a china plate. She sliced some cheese to go with it, then untied some salami. She glanced back at Feuilly as she did so, and instinctively, Feuilly shook his head.

“Oh,” Jehan murmured. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I …”

But the young man was all at sea. His family had never been very religious, not doctrinal or dogmatic. Still, he’d never eaten meat with milk before; he’d never eaten _treyf_. All that was over now, though, over and how! Meals would surely be hard to come by, few and far between. He might as well get used to that – he should simply and gladly partake of whatever came his way. Meat was rare enough as it was these days, too …

When he shared his thoughts with Jehan, however, the girl vehemently shook her head. “Don’t decide that tonight.”

“I’ve got no other choice.”

“In my home you do. Sleep on it first.” And with that, she cut him another few slices of cheese. Handing the plate to him, she went to pour some water from a pitcher and then, after a moment’s thought, took a very small, shiny packet out of a drawer in the table.

“My last bit of chocolate. I saved it since last year. But you should have it.” Jehan lay it gently in Feuilly’s outstretched hand.

The young man smiled his thanks, lay the tablet of chocolate on his plate, and began to eat.

 

 

Jehan let him eat in silence. She had pulled out a book and read for a bit, to give him some privacy, perhaps; to let him alone with his thoughts. Now, about twenty minutes later, he was sitting on the bed, pulling the covers up around himself. Jehan had found him a nightshirt. It was tight, one of hers, but they both estimated that the sooner Feuilly was rid of his work shirt the better. He still hadn’t had a chance to wash properly, but at least he wouldn’t get machine grease on her sheets. “This is so strange,” he murmured.

Jehan looked up. She’d taken a pillow and a blanket over to the armchair where Feuilly had been sitting. The boy had protested at that, but she’d insisted, and truth be told, he was glad not to have to be sharing her small bed. He was, however, not thinking about that now.

“Last night I was at work. My entire world hadn’t turned upside down yet. I was working, and my parents and sister were sleeping calm in their beds.”

The girl nodded soberly.

“Where could they be taking them? Last year they deported men for labor in the East but … women and children as well? Nadzia’s fourteen!”

Jehan just nodded again.

“I know the war will be over someday, and maybe we’ll make it through, … but!” He stopped short. Once again, words would not do his thoughts justice.

“Nadzia’s your sister?” Jehan asked then.

“My sister, yeah. Sometimes we call her Nadine. My parents …” Feuilly could feel sobs rising up in his throat. He pressed on anyways. “My parents are called Moishe and Rifke. My aunt Channah is in France too.”

He couldn’t help it at that point. He began to cry and fell silent, taking his face in his hands and rocking for a moment with the force of his sobs. There was so little he knew, and even less he could do. Who knew how bad things could be for them? And when would he see them again? There was no telling that he ever would. Then again, there was no telling that he wouldn’t, but there were no assurances in that, only blind hope.

At length, he looked up. Jehan was looking at him, that same thoughtful, compassionate gaze from before. Feuilly frowned.

“You don’t believe in God at all, do you?” He asked her.

 She shrugged, frowning in return now, almost apologetic.           

“Doesn’t matter. There’s an – anyway – there’s an expression. Either way. It’s Yiddish. It goes “ _Der mentsh trakht un Got lakht._ Man plans and …”

But at this Jehan had gotten up from her chair and quickly come to join Feuilly on the bed, wrapping her arms around him. She reached up to stroke his hair, then looked up at him sadly.

“Man plans … and God laughs,” he finished, unnecessarily perhaps, for clearly she’d understood.

“Oh, but don’t you see? We’ll make another plan. There’s always … always another plan.” She gave him one more pat on the shoulder. “Now get some sleep, all right?”

 

[1]This is the French term for France’s defeat in June 1940. As the Germans were advancing, many people from the north of France and from Paris fled to the south, and, as Jehan here describes, after the surrender, many people remained in the then-unoccupied south, but many others returned to their homes, some to resume everyday lives, others to take up clandestine activity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Vel de Hiv' Round-Up is the most well-known mass arrest and deportation of Jews from Paris during the Holocaust. Targeting foreign-born Jews and their children, it took place on July 16th and 17th, 1942. 13,152 people were arrested and held within the stadium (the Vélodrome d'Hiver) for several days before being deported to transit camps and then to Auschwitz. Fewer than 100 people deported on those days survived the Holocaust. (You can read more at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vel%27_d%27Hiv_Roundup#The_V.C3.A9lodrome_d.27Hiver)
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who has helped with this chapter, who beta'd it or gave me advice. This was actually the first chapter I wrote for this AU, so I'm glad to finally have it online!


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